


Walking on Sand

by dietjoke



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Action, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pre-Canon, Romance, That Is Eventually Resolved, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietjoke/pseuds/dietjoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1987. There's a revolution in Tunisia, and in Harry Hart's life too.</p><p>A fill of the prompt "Merlin/Harry, on a mission together, after which Merlin has never worked in the field again" from a Kingsman fest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking on Sand

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Шаги по песку](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/104877) by Лейтенатор (Leytenator). 



> English is not my first language. Unbetad. Here be dragons.

They are in Tunisia together, and what could be worse than to find yourself on the edge of a scorching desert with a person that makes you sick?

Harry is sick of everything around him; of dirty grey sand, of glasses badly washed in a rusty tap water. Whichever idiot decided that the local five-star wasn’t going to be an absolute shite was fucking wrong.

Harry smiles, Harry changes his shirt three times a day, furiously tearing off another sweat-soaked rag. He’d gladly tear the smile off his face as well but the moody arsehole next door took it upon himself to play the bad cop so he has no other options.

Mordred should be here any day now; but a week passes then another starts, and Merlin and he are still stuck in a shite hotel with a shite breakfast. Meat at dinner looks already half-digested; flies land on it, not at all deterred by the muddy crystal glasses and cutlery stained with grease.

Harry smiles.

"For God’s sake, Galahad, you gonna blow off some steam, you go to the next town over. We still have to work here. And don’t give me that look like you’d rather gobble me up. Everyone knows about your temper tantrums. I more and more regret they didn't send one of the women with me. I’d have known then the madness will subside in a couple of days."

Harry smiles, gets up silently from the table, nods curtly and goes to the pool.

It would have been not advisable to fly to Tunisia with a woman. Nimue is over sixty and busy with analytics, Morgana is twenty nine and far too attractive to go to Tunisia even in the company of a respectable gentleman. Fuck those Arabs.

At the heart of every revolution there is money and information - and only as much brute force to make the two flow in the right direction in the right time.  
Merlin is responsible for the information, and Harry himself for the finances and a bit of brute force.  
It’s odd for him and frankly unflattering to feel like a goon of a bodyguard.

Harry tells himself that next to Merlin anyone would look like a gormless repeater.

Mordred is late.

Harry lies on a lounger by the pool full of the ubiquitous flies floating in it, and thinks that he would rather be anywhere else now. That anywhere is better than here.  
Take Guinea a few years ago; its brick red soil brought to Harry’s mind the walls of his favourite pub in London. And also soaked up the blood really well.

Rumour has it there’s some stir expected in Thailand as well but optimists believe angry crowds won't flood the streets of Bangkok for another ten to twenty years.  
Harry has never been an optimist.  
But he always has been and always shall remain a gentleman. So he would nod in agreement when the situation demands. Especially when, other than "Would you be so kind as to die, you bloody poofters", there is nothing on his mind.

More than sand, heat, and dirty water, more than optimists, revolutionaries, and flies in his brandy, Harry can’t stand poofs.  
Especially Merlin.

All right, he doesn’t care much about any of them gays.  
Only Merlin.

Hitherto he consoled himself with the fact that anyone could be mistaken about him - so easy it was to be deceived by the impeccably polite smile, perfectly tailored suit, bright tie, and most sincere attention in Harry's eyes. He occasionally faced such misconceptions from strangers and, though he found it somewhat annoying at times, forgave them.  
But Merlin was not a stranger.

He was a fucking genius of Kingsman, and wasn’t prone to random mistakes.

Two possible conclusions could be derived from this, first that Merlin deliberately took a piss when he handed him an invitation to a party in a members-only gay club with the most deadpan mien (invitation Harry tactfully returned upon reading without commenting on it), and a second conclusion Harry did not wish to contemplate.

He doesn't want to think about it now either, lazily sipping on his drink and glancing over the rim of his sunglasses at the huddle of tourists around the pool. It would have been better to have Gawain here, what with his ability to wriggle into absolutely anyone’s favor and equally easily charm both starchy old men and hoi polloi girls who managed to marry rich but not to know Chopard from Chopin.

Harry has a bad temper, a charming smile and an ability to keep silent when needed.  
Merlin doesn't have one or the other, or the third, but for some reason he is moving up the ranks at an enviable speed, unlike Harry himself. Apparently because he doesn't have any weaknesses either.

"At least go to Carthage, have a look at the remains of it’s former grandeur." Merlin stops beside his lounger and looks him up and down with a scornful glance. "You gonna deign me with an answer? No? Swell, be your usual knobhead self. I’m going to my room, don’t knock and don’t call unless you have a deathwish."

Harry salutes him with his drink, lips stretching into a smile.  
Merlin swears through his teeth and goes to the hotel.

Harry never allows himself to swear out loud, only to himself.  
He has manners.  
And a great supply of curses for any case that sound just as good in his own head.

 

***

Mordred’s flight is delayed. Harry idly paces along the tiny airport building, cursing to himself at the heat and hordes of French tourists picking up friends and families. Britons are a seldom occurrence here so his slight accent evokes a storm of interest among girls in colorful dresses, and their mums too.

Harry smiles and nips all attempts at making acquaintance with him in the bud, pointedly intoning he is actually here to pick up a very close friend of his, inwardly wincing with annoyance.

Bloody fuck, why couldn’t they send Gawain here?

Harry is twenty six and brimming with hope not to cock up this mission, the most important mission he’s been trusted with so far. He needs someone by his side; a mentor, an example, a nonesuch, someone older, calmer, and wiser, someone who could give him a smile and a wordless reassurance that everything is all right.  
That Harry is doing all right.

And instead it’s been a fortnight of his being forced to put up with an arrogant wanker no older than himself. Who yesterday drove off without any warning into a sizzling hot Sahara, where them crazy ass Americans shot their "Star Wars" a decade or so ago, and left him but a note indicating the time he ought to meet Mordred.

Harry smiles and straightens his open shirt collar.

Harry makes a promise to himself to punch the glasses into bastard’s heinous eyes at the very first chance, quickly and neatly, without messing up his suit.

Anticipation tickling at his fists itchily, Harry closes his eyes for a moment and sees it clear as day, a sight for sore eyes - cringing pale face that promptly gets sunburnt, too-high forehead that’s going to go bald by the age of thirty, thin-lipped, always crooked mouth, sharp Adam’s apple asking to be smashed right into his throat.

Harry smiles.  
Even heat and squalor piss him off a little less with every passing minute.

When the throngs of greeters and passengers finally disperse, Harry, without dropping a smile from his face, goes to the passport control where amongst a small group of surly Arabs in uniform is lurking a white medical gown.

In the evening, after having to sign off all the paperwork for the returning the body home with the next available flight and to phone a furious Arthur who, when pissed off, grits the words out so slowly and markedly politely it makes Harry want to immediately strangle himself, Harry goes and catches a cab to the hotel, already barely able to contain his anger.

What happens next doesn’t look like a suitable excuse even to him. But when he doesn’t find in his room an opened bottle of brandy that was sitting in his bar this very morning, and instead sees again the humiliating note with the instructions, he knocks on the next room door and without any preamble does what he dreamed of the whole day long. Clocks Merlin right the fuck on his haughty nose.

 

***

"What do you mean, a heart attack? Have they gone barmy? Mordred was in perfect health, you should have taken the body for the forensic examination on site…"

"Shut your gob. Be so kind." Harry gives in and grins, gloating at suddenly silenced Merlin.

Who shrugs and tilts his head back again, holding a thawing ice wrapped in a handkerchief to his nose. Harry fishes a couple of ice cubes from the bucket and plops them in his gin, glancing wistfully at the brandy; it would be a true blasphemy to drink it iced but drinking something warm in this heat is revolting to even think about.

"They didn’t let me take the body. Arthur said they don't have the time to find a replacement, see, with everyone being so busy in you precious US."

Merlin winces, taking the ice from his nose, and hisses,

"High-tech is the future, and you know perfectly well that the US are ahead of us. Bleeding Tunisia, I’m so damn sick of it!"

"I couldn’t agree more. Such an acute observation." Harry nods at Merlin. The corner of his mouth on his already wry face twitches.

"What do I have to do to make you work with me like a normal human being? Give you a vintage bottle of "Remy Martin"? Or a couple of yards of tweed for you to wank over?"

"Never mind, I won’t be able to wear decent costumes in the nearest future." Harry turns a deaf ear to all that nonsense and finishes his gin in one go.

Merlin glumly watches him pouring himself a new drink.

"You drink too much. I’m not even talking about how it’s basically a suicide in this weather but we do actually have to make a further plan of action."

"I have no doubt in your intellectual prowess, dearest Merlin. I will gladly listen to your plan B. I am quite certain you must have it on the ready."

"Wanker," hisses Merlin.

"You could use your own brains for a change! Will you stop already with this childish business, I’ve had enough of you making a fool of yourself and drinking, what do you think I took the liquor from your room for? I need you sober."

"You see, Merlin, that is our problem here," says Harry with the sweetest smile on his face; he hopes his smile is sweet enough to rot teeth from afar. "I don’t need you at all."

Harry doesn’t know what exactly has the desired effect, the sneer, the tone or the words, but Merlin’s face makes an extremely pitiful expression.

He stands from the neatly made bed and goes to the door, saying over his shoulder to Harry who's still sitting in a chair, "I’m going to contact Arthur. I want you to be gone when I’m back."

Harry raises a full glass to the door slamming shut and doesn’t notice how he transfers himself to bed with a fresh drink. Really, it’s just more comfortable there. He can’t be bothered to retrieve the bottle so he closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling the barely noticeable, slightly bitter, fresh and very appealing scent of the pillows and sheets.

"You drunken git," he hears a disgruntled voice above him, but Harry is now too lazy to open his eyes too, he just turns on his side and falls asleep to the spiteful muttering.

Before he’s completely out, he hears a faint muffled sigh rather close to himself but doesn’t pay it any mind.

 

***

Morning greets him with a splitting headache, putrid taste in his mouth and no less vile Merlin, coming out of the shower already dressed and combing his dark wet hair with a brush.

"Get up. And don’t make such a woeful face or I’m going to puke just from looking at you."

Harry sits up slowly on the bed and rubs his face with his palms. Despite his hangover he’s desperately craving a drink again. As always, when one has to work with Merlin.

"I am surprised I am still wearing my trousers," he says with a cheerful grin, and whistles smugly when he sees two spots of bright pink blooming on Merlin’s cheeks. "My friend, there is no reason to be this nervous."

"You are such a tosser," Merlin informs him, buttoning his cuffs, "And a coward." He chews on his lip and nods at the door. "Get out. We are leaving in half an hour."

"Have you ever thought about changing your career path?" Wonders Harry, coming up to him. "You like giving orders so much, wouldn't it be worth a try to serve in the Her Majesty's Armed Forces?"

"It wouldn't," replies Merlin. "Twenty eight minutes."

Harry clicks his heels with all the grace he could muster up.

He hurries through his shower and gulps down a couple of glasses of juice, then goes down to the reception to find Merlin waving at him from the big jeep with tinted windows.  
When Harry ask where they are going, he only gets the answer after twenty minutes ride.

"You know," Merlin says with a dreamy smile on his lips, and Harry has seen very little as vile in his life. "Yesterday I enjoyed my little walk around Lucas’ movie set so much I decided to take you there. You are going to like it. You are so fond of States, after all."

Harry smiles and thinks about blood on his knuckles.

 

By noon, the sun is so high in the sky, and the air in the car is heated to the point that Harry is ready to strip naked in front of Merlin.  
Even thinking about going outside and having to step on the sand is making his brains melt.

"I do not doubt for a second your foresight to bring some ice along." Says Harry, slightly tilting his head towards Merlin. Who snorts and steps on gas.

Harry has just decided that the idea he came up with that explains the reasonableness of cannibalism before lunch is rather passable for such rural places, as the jeep rounds another barchan, and there are stocky buildings in front of them.  
A silver shine reflecting from some ironwork is blinding in the desert sun.  
Harry puts on his sunglasses.  
Merlin stops the engine and slams the door. Hot air he lets in for a moment feel like a burn on the face.

"You should have told me to grab a hat," grandly says Harry, getting out of the car after him.

"Should have." Merlin nods at him with no less grandeur and saunters to the set decorations sticking out of the bare desert looking like any moment some Jedi is about to walk from behind them.

His place by the car is immediately taken by some grimy kids and a few older boys, who, as if by some unspoken agreement, make a solid wall surrounding only Harry, shaking souvenirs and cheap cameras in his face, and completely ignore Merlin.

Wonderful.  
Just great.  
Harry smiles with such force he feels his teeth ache.

"Is something wrong?" Merlin asks, turning to him and nodding towards one of the kids. "If I were you I’d ask if they got any hats. Well, or at least a couple of old papers to make a cap from. You as the most fashionable of Kingsmen will love the design."

Merlin walks along the little houses, touches the metal carcasses of an absolutely stupid construction; does the idiot really think it’s some advanced tech?  
He walks through the tiny town and comes back to the jeep at surprisingly brisk pace so Harry, mobbed by kids as he is, can barely keep up with him.

They drive a few miles when Merlin brakes and says with an absolutely straight face,

"Take the picnic basket. It’s under the back seat."

He climbs up the barchan, scrabbling in the sand. Harry is in all seriousness considering not killing him but putting him in a madhouse upon their return.

"How’s your head holding up to the sun?" Harry asks Merlin’s back.

"I put sunscreen lotion on," absentmindedly answers Merlin, not turning back. "Would you please pass me the basket? And take a look, you might find something to your liking."

Harry roots around it out of sheer curiosity and a hope that sulky arsehole actually thought to bring water.  
His hand touches cool metal.

"See something you like?"

"Oh yeah."

Harry does indeed. Inside.  
And out.

 

***

There are six of them, and running from the second car sharply braked next to the battered minibus there are six more, and something inside Harry, something that has never failed him before, tells him that’s not all of them.

"Some great basket you have!" yells Harry, quickly passing it to Merlin, and jumps aside, rolling on the scorching sand that grits in his eyes and throat.

He takes down the first two, rolls over again moving away from the gunfire, and shoots, quickly and precisely. If Merlin wants a captive he can take care of it himself.  
Fucker fancies himself the cleverest in the whole bloody world.  
What were him and Arthur talking about yesterday? What did he tell him?

Arabs are aiming for the legs which means they need a man for interrogation too. Harry remembers their training as Kingsman recruits. One must be a complete and utter berk to think one of them will talk.

"Get down!" Shouts Merlin, and Harry presses himself into the sand, covering his head, closes his eyes, deafened for a second. Shock wave throws them down the barchan, sand spilling on their heads. Harry spits it out and wrestles from Merlin’s hands a second sound grenade.

"Do it again, and I’ll shove it up your arse." He promises with serenity in his voice that even he is impressed with. Merlin blinks and opens his mouth - confused and terribly funny - and then his eyes go big and he throws himself at Harry and knocks him to the ground. A bullet grazes his shoulder, Harry hisses, pushing screaming Merling off himself. Merlin’s face goes wobbly at the sight of his blood.

"You throw it then, you fuckung smart arse!" yells he.

And Harry does.

Of course, Islamists haven’t the faintest what Kingsman had in store for them nor could they have imagined a couple dozen militants wouldn’t be enough to deal with two blokes.  
They finish off the rest of them, Merlin back to back with Harry, and he’s emanating the heat ten times stronger than that of a desert around them.

 

They drive back to the hotel in silence, and only at the outskirts of the town Harry stops holding his hastily bandaged shoulder and turns to the pallid Merlin.

“Would you be so kind as to explain what was that?”

“Never mind.”

Harry is feeling so generous he even waits until they are in the hotel.  
Notwithstanding all the advances of modern medicine, good old bloodletting is still great for soothing the nerves.

“What. The fuck. Was that.”

Adam’s apple under the thumb of Harry’s hand that’s squeezing Merlin’s throat visibly twitches.  
It’s nice.

“They were planning an action, we needed to lure their main forces out of town. Everything’s all right. Regime change took place peacefully, there were no disturbances.”

“I’m not talking about that, Merlin. I’m …”

“You would’ve made a fuss about it if you knew what the plan was beforehand, and it would be more dangerous to proceed with the operation. You operate better in the crisis mode, when you don’t have to think, just act. I didn’t want to risk anything going tits up. I didn’t want to risk you. I am very sorry that they got your shoulder. I… apologize."

Harry slowly unclenches his fingers and watches in amazement as Merlin pulls out from under the bed his own bottle of brandy, unscrewing the cap and taking a gulp straight from the bottle.

“I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you,” says Merlin softly and thickly, his head down.

Harry thinks the time has finally come for the triumphant smile. But he's not smiling.

Instead he sits next to Merlin on the bed and takes the bottle from him. His fingers, when Harry inadvertently touches them, are clammy and trembling.

“Suck as a field agent, do I?”, chuckles Merlin, staring at the floor like it’s something absolutely fascinating.

“Sucks to be you, as it were”, graciously agrees Harry, following Merlin’s lead and taking a generous mouthful from the bottle. He licks his lips and puts the brandy on the small table, casting a sidelong glance at Merlin, “Are you really that stupid over me?”

“Fucked”, curtly answers Merlin.

And Harry does understand, yes, it’s fucked. Game over.  
Charming: he no more has any desire to clock his main life problem in the face.

“Patch me up properly, will you. Got sand in the wound”

“Go shower, I’ll get the med kit from the bag”, Merlin is still not looking at him.

Harry closes the bathroom door and dampens the crusted dressing on his shoulder with water. He slowly peels it off - nothing serious: tangential wound - and thinks, now he wants to pat that foolish Merlin on the head.

“You did fine, stop it with the tragic face,” he says, coming back into the room. His shirt is ruined beyond salvation and has found it’s last haven in the dustbin along with the remains of his bad mood and grievances. “Next time, just kindly check your surroundings better.”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” says Merlin with an impenetrable conviction.

“I told you already, it’s too late to make a tragedy of it…”

“No. There’s no next time. You and I as the youngest are always going to be sent on missions to gain experience. Together. And I am unable to look around and think of myself with you in my sight. Give me your arm, damn you to hell.”

Merlin finally looks up and fixes him with burning vicious stare.  
His eyes are dark, furious, and bloody big, framed with thick lashes.

Harry bites the inside of his cheek.  
Fucked?  
Well and truly.

Merlin fixes up his bandage quickly and deftly, without sparing him a single extra touch.

“It’s too tight,” complains Harry, and Merlin bites out, “You’ll live,” with such an ineffably brazen expression Harry can’t hold back a giggle.

“Long story short, I thought about it. Fieldwork is not for me. Arthur said, if I do all right on this mission, he’ll transfer me to the coordination division. So you are going to pull double duty. Work both your muscles and brains. Don’t you fret, rumour has it there are some true miracles expected in the transplantology field. I’ll donate you a bit of mine.”

“If you go in my head I might very well go bonkers,” laughs Harry.

Merlin looks at him askance and then moves closer and presses his lips to Harry’s, hard and with a surprising insistence, pushing his tongue inside; and it’s so hot it nearly burns the roof of Harry’s mouth.

“Here. I was in your head. How are you coping?” he asks, pulling back just as abruptly, and Harry suddenly realises it's the first time he sees Merlin that close, and Merlin is definitely younger than him - especially with such a determined and at the same time frightened expression on his face. And his cock is plumping up.

“May I ask if you are even of age?” Harry smiles wryly, and a sudden rush of sense of power floods his entire body with warmth as even his shoulder stops aching.

Isn’t it funny, he wasted so much time trying to find Merlin’s weakness, and it was sitting right under his nose - in the form of Harry himself, with all his ridiculous grievances and bad temper he wished so hard to keep at bay.

The knowledge is more intoxicating than alcohol.

Harry leans closer and slides his fingers down Merlin’s cheekbone, greedily taking in his blown pupils.

“What did you want to do to me? Fuck me? Let me fuck you? Merlin…”

“Conceited fucking arsehole,” hisses Merlin, pushing Harry off.

“What’s your real name?” asks Harry, feeling woozy as though he were drunk, drunk on the sound of that faltering voice, on the vermilion-splattered cheekbones, on lips pressed close; realising there’s no going back now, and that he doesn’t want to.

“As if I’d tell you.”

“My name is Harry. Harry Hart.”

Merlin licks his lips and breathes out.

Harry smiles a loony, happy smile.

“Show me what to do. Be so kind. Please.”

“Fucker.”

“I really like it when you swear.”

Merlin gets up from the bed and bends over the open bag, and throws at Harry some sort of a tube.

“Is it petroleum jelly?”

“It’s sunscreen lotion, you moron!”

“Were you planning on letting the sun into the darkest corners of your black soul…”

Harry stops mid-sentence because Merlin snaps his belt buckle and pulls his trousers down with his pants, then pulls his shirt over his head - buttons flying off his cuffs, one nearly misses Harry’s eye - and falls on the bed.  
Merlin has a long prick with a heavy pink glans - he’s bigger than Harry. It’s hard and pressed against his stomach.  
Merlin turns on his belly, scooping up both pillows, shoving them under his hips, and spreading his legs. He puts his face into the crook of his elbow and breathes thickly.

“I”ll fuck you later. Or not. I’ll kill you.” He says, and his whole body shudders when Harry touches his anus with a lotion-slicked fingers.

Merlin is impossibly tense and clamped up, and Harry slaps him on his pale arsecheek.

“Too tight,’ he says and smiles, leaning closer, whispering in Merlin’s ear, “But you’ll live.”

He’s rushing, stretching a tight bum and fishing a condom from the med kit at the same time, opening the packet with his teeth and rolling the condom on his cock with his clean hand. Then on reflection he adds some more lotion and presses the head of his cock to the hole, almost lying down on top of Merlin.

“Bugger,” spits Merlin. “How did I fucking end up like this…”

“If there’s something wrong, you could always coordinate my actions,” murmurs Harry to the sweaty nape of his neck.

Merlin stills and with a quiet sniсker turns his sweat-drenched face to Harry.

“I knew you were the same eejit in bed. Go slower, buggering fuck, else you want to impale me on your prick! And don’t slump on me, you are suffocating me. Let me…”

Harry wants to say something clever back, but Merlin tenses and stands on all fours, arching his back. Harry gasps softly and smoothes his palm over it; the skin is hot and silky, with barely any scars. Most likely there won't be more, but even if for some reason there will appear new marks, he’s always going to remember it and see it just like this, like it is now. And this nonsensical thought fills Harry with such an unthinkable affection his breath catches.

He leans in, pressing his lips to the fine bones of Merlin’s neck, and pushes his hips forward.

Merlin's quiet, he just shivers and tilts his head back. Harry watches him squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lip, hard.

“Look at me,’ Harry pleads, and adds, “It’s all good. You feel so very good.”

“I have no doubt in that,” says Merlin and moans, pushing back and fucking himself on Harry’s cock. Merlin is so tight and hot, and his - his wicked, clever, and self-confident son of a bitch, with the only one weakness in his life.

Harry fucks him slowly, trying like hell not to rush, not to tear something. He has had anal sex before, of course. But he was bloody unprepared all the same for the thought of a bloke who could easily kill him, who was by no means inferior and in many ways superior to him; of that bloke keening under him to make him feel so very odd and so good.

Merlin is moaning, again and again, holding a hand over his mouth, and Harry stands on his knees, pulling him up, and bottoms out, bollocks slapping against damp taint.  
He presses Merlin's back against his chest and greedily paws over his groin, palming his balls, stroking his cock, touching a finger to his slit, and Merlin shakes his head, swearing a blue streak at him.

He comes, turning his face to Harry and trying to catch his mouth with his reddened, bitten raw lips.

Harry waits until Merlin stops shivering from his orgasm and softly guides his chin with his fingers, touching his lips to the hot mouth.

Better than booze.

Merlin slumps forward and lies on his chest, stretching his arms above his head. He twitches his hips and squeezes Harry inside him, and Harry has trouble breathing, hammering into him and barely holding back a scream.  
He’s twisted up and wrung out, like he’s under the shock wave again, his thighs cramping up, and he comes, driving into that tight bum, and stills, panting and gulping for air.

Merlin rolls over to the side of the bed with a quiet groan, Harry’s softening prick slipping out of his arse - Harry gets a glimpse of a puffy red rim - and stretches on his back, and then Harry is blinking and staring at Merlin’s prick.

“All right for a first-timer”, drowsily says Merlin, his eyes half-closed, “Next time, when I’m talking you through something, would you kindly listen to me just a little.”

“In the field, in bed?”

“For better, for worse,” Merlin makes a face at him and yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth.

“What happened to your manners!” laughs Harry, and Merlin just shrugs his shoulders.

“Got fucked up my arse, thanks to you.”

“And how are they feeling up there?”

“Ask yours. I suppose they are around there too. Galahad.”

“Harry.”

“Harry. A-Man-with-his-manners-up-his-arse.”

“They are all right there, I’d wager. As long as it’s yours. Shall we drive to Carthage tomorrow?”

Merlin doesn’t say anything to that, his breathing even and quiet, and Harry carefully covers him with a clean sheet.

They’ll drive to Carthage, or into Sahara, or they’ll go to the airport to be brought before Arthur’s wrathy eyes.  
It doesn’t matter. It’s going to be fun.

Harry watches Merlin sleep and doesn’t think of anything.  
Harry smiles.

 

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Also, many thanks to the wonderful author who so graciously let me share that gem with the English-speaking part of the Kingsman fandom! If you can read in Russian, there's more where it came from, and it's all great!


End file.
